Foggy Morning on the Bus
by tupacalypse57
Summary: Joan meets a rather familiar stranger on a bus ride one morning.
1. Chapter 1

I see him from across the aisle. Just…sitting there. Staring out the dirty window at something I cannot see. His eyes taking in the grey London morning, so intricate and gentle. Suddenly his eyes fall on me. I freeze, completely still even in the bumps that the bus travels over. My eyes dart away and stare out the window, my gaze fixed away from him. After a few moments when I am sure that he has forgotten about me, I turn my head slightly to steal a quick glance at him. He is not there.

"Beautiful morning."

I whip around. There he is, sitting in the seat behind me, looking calm and nonchalant. His black overcoat is pulled up around his neck and he is holding a cup of tea. The steam from the tea drifts up into my face and I subtly inhale, capturing the warm scent in my nostrils. His aura smells like hot lemon and clean soap. Everything about him was striking; the way his eyes, full of color, pierced mine, the way his jaw looked freshly shaven, and the way his movements were exactly and precisely calculated.

I was at a loss for words. My tongue moved in my mouth, wanting to speak but my brain was trapped in a thick lemon scented fog. I did not have to speak though. He continued talking, still staring out the window, like he was talking more to himself than to me.

"Crazy… humans, I mean. They build their lives around the silliest most unimportant things."

He chuckled to himself and took a sip of his tea, still gazing absentmindedly out the window. I finally found words, and they tumbled out of my mouth more sarcastically than I meant to say them.

"You say that as if you're not a human like the rest of us."

He chuckled again and turned his head to look at me for only a second, and then he returned his stare to the window again.

"Can I ask you something?" He said.

"You don't even know me." I said feeling surprised that he would talk to me so casually, as if he were just an average citizen like me. I looked around to see if anybody else was watching. There wasn't a single soul on the bus with us.

"Can I ask you something?" He said again, as if he hadn't even said it the first time.

"Well alright I guess." I said hesitantly.

He turned his gaze away from the window and settled himself so that his whole body was turned towards me, those eyes penetrating mine. He wasn't really looking at my eyes though. He was looking past my eyes, into my mind, my soul, judging every aspect of my being. I felt like somebody had reached into my head and pulled out my thoughts, picking through them like pieces of paper in a filing cabinet.

"My job is to entertain people when they get bored. My whole life is dictated by a camera and a script. I wear clothes that are not mine, recite words that I did not think of myself, take on the life of a character who is not really me. I run around the country, getting pictures taken of me, getting filmed and interviewed, signing autographs. I don't have a free day on my calendar for the next 3 years. All for people to sit idly on a couch and gawk at my face on a pixilated screen." He stopped, out of breath. He seemed to calm himself a little, taking a long drink of his tea. He breathed in like he was going to say something, but then paused and thought better of it. He did this a few more times until he found the right words. "Is it really worth it?"

I didn't say anything for a while. We kept eye contact. His eyes were no longer full of fire and life. They just looked glassy and tired. I stood up and slid into the seat next to him. I rested my hand on top of his, rubbing it, trying to give him comfort. It was surreal to see this man, usually an outgoing happy person, now a shell of himself.

"I'd always wanted to be an actor. Ever since I was a boy, I was staring in school plays, but things are bigger than school plays now. I'm 37! I should be living in a quaint little house in Hammersmith with children running around! Why is it that I can never get things together?" He said. He was not angry at himself but just disappointed. He put his head in his hands and stayed that way for a few moments. Then he looked up and back out the window again. "Sorry to bother you miss."

The bus came to a stop and the doors squealed open.

"Last stop, dears!" the old bus driver said.

I stayed seated a few moments more, thinking silently to myself. I stood up suddenly and reached down to grab the man's hand. I drug him off the bus and into the park.

"Excuse me! Where are we going?" He yelled.

I didn't answer. I just kept pulling him along until he stopped resisting. He fell in step with me and I had expected him to let go of my hand, but he showed no sign of doing so. We walked through the park until we got to a small swing set with only two swings. I sat on one of the swings and started rocking forward and backwards ever so slightly.

"Sit." I told him, motioning towards the other swing.

"What on earth are you doing?" he said, clearly baffled as to why we were here.

"Just sit." I told him again.

He set his tea down on the ground and sat in the swing, rocking himself in it like I did. We swung for a while, until I thought of what I wanted to say.

"When I was a little girl, I always used to run away from home. I'd take the bus as far as it would take me, which is here. This park. And I'd sit and swing for a while until I sorted everything out and was ready to go home and face reality again. I find myself coming back here a lot, even as an adult now."

He didn't say anything in response. He just kept swinging.

"I know it's silly—" I said, but he cut me off.

"No. It's quite beautiful really," he said, looking over at me and smiling, "I can see why you came here. It creates a soothing atmosphere for the mind."

I stopped swinging and just sat there. He did also.

"I think there was a reason I was on that bus today. Fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it, but it definitely wasn't an accident. And I'm glad of it," he said dreamily, looking around the park as the sun started to rise, the fog burning away.

He took a sip of his tea and then offered it to me. I took it from his hands and clasped it in mine. I felt the warmth of not only the tea, but of his hands, as if they were still there beneath mine. I touched my lips to the edge of the cup and took a long sip of the tart lemony liquid. I tightened my scarf around my neck and breathed a long sigh, watching the white cloud of air form in front of me. It was truly a brisk day, so cold that you could see your breath. I turned to see him watching me, watching my short wispy breaths, in and out. He was smiling.

I stood and returned his tea to him, his hands clamping over mine. I allowed myself to stay like that for a few seconds, but then I pulled my hands away and turned around, starting to walk away. He stood quickly and grabbed me by the shoulder.

"Where are you going?" He asked. His eyes searched mine, and I saw that the vivid color had returned, the corners of his eyes ever so crinkled from years of smiling.

"I'm going to get on with my day," I answered matter-o-factly.

"But you can't just leave," He said, looking worried.

"I've had a wonderful morning with you, but I really have to go now. It was very nice to meet you though."

"But I have this strange feeling about you. I think you're…special," he said, hesitating on the last word.

"I'm sorry. But, I have the feeling that I've served my purpose in your life," I said. He tried to open his mouth to speak again, but I didn't let him. I stood on my tip-toes and pressed my lips against his cheek. Then I turned back around and walked away. By then the fog had cleared and the sun was just above the horizon, painting the sky a pastel pink.

"Wait!" He yelled from across the park, "I didn't catch your name!"

I stood still for a few moments and turned around.

"My name is Joan!" I yelled back at him.

"I'm Benedict!"

"Nice to meet you Benedict!" I replied, laughing a bit. He laughed too and we stood smiling across the empty space between us. I finally turned back around and strode away.


	2. 15 Years Later

I sat on the bus, staring dreamily out the dirty window. I let my eyes focus and unfocus on different objects outside as the bus bumped along.

My mind wandered and I thought about what I had to do later today. All the endless tasks ahead of me. I had to go to the bank and cash my paycheck, go home and clean up the dirty pots and pans from last night's dinner, call the insurance to get things straightened out, pick up Meredith and Charlie from school, help them with their homework, do laundry, make dinner, fight with Mario again, and go to sleep angry and broke. Then the day could start all over again.

I leaned my head against the bus window, letting it rock me into a daze. Outside, the morning was still not upon me, and the fog was thick and hazy. Water droplets formed on the cool glass.

Eventually, I was roused from my light nap by the sound of the doors screeching open.

"Last stop, dear," the old bus driver hollered just like she did every morning.

I stood and got off the bus, staring at the ground, watching each foot plant itself in front of the other over and over again. By the time I looked up, I was in the park. My park. There stood my rusty old swing set, the seats creaking ever so slightly as a slight breeze blew past. It took me a few moments to realize that it was not a mirage. My dear old friend was sitting in one of the seats, waiting for me.

I walked tiredly over to the swing set and plopped down on the open seat. My seat. I rocked back and forth a bit before either of us broke the comforting silence.

"Beautiful morning isn't it," he said.

I smiled, causing the wrinkles at the corners of my eyes and mouth to show themselves.

"What's wrong?" he asked, stilling his swing and standing up. He walked towards me, kneeling at my feet when he was close enough. His eyes had not lost their vividness, that wild rainbow that danced behind his pupil's, the eyes of a young boy who still had his entire life ahead of him. Of course, his wrinkles were more defined by this point, but the wrinkles were formed because of years of smiling. His hair was still light red and full of slight curls, but I noticed there was a sprinkle of silver in there also.

"Nothing's wrong," I said, looking him straight in the eyes, but silently hoping that he wouldn't believe me. But he knew better than that. When he looked into my eyes, he saw past them, and into my soul. He saw every single fight between me and Mario, he saw every time my children told me they didn't love me, he saw every threatening phone call from the bank, he saw every pain I had suffered within 15 years. I fell from the swing and into his arms. And he held me there, against his warm black coat and allowed me to empty my tears upon his shoulder. He buried every sob filled breath in his chest. He rubbed my back with his hands, experienced with years of comforting. And we sat, kneeling in the park beneath the swing set as the London sun started to rise, filling the grey sky with pinks and oranges beyond anything I had ever seen.

After a long while of this, I pulled my face away from his chest and allowed him to look at me. But he did not look upon me critically. He pulled his coat sleeve over his hand and wiped my tear streaked face until it was dry. He tucked loose pieces of faded grey hair behind my ears and looked at me some more. I leaned against his shoulder and watched the sun, slow and steady on the horizon.

We sat there for a few more minutes. We forgot about time, and we just sat, admiring the London sun as it made the fog disappear. I had seen this same sunrise so many times, but no other morning could compare to this one. He held my small body against his, offering me a drink of his steaming lemon tea. I accepted it graciously and drank from that cup like it was the holy grail of God. And we sat some more, and I felt the steady in and out of his breathing, so constant and sure. His eyes gleamed in awe of the sun as it continued to rise, and he looked upon it like it was the greatest marvel he had ever seen. And I knew the morning was slipping away from us and I didn't care.

I felt his lips part slightly and press against my cheek, aged with years of stress.

"I love you Joan."

His words took me by surprise and when I didn't think I knew what to say, my mouth did it for me.

"I love you Benedict."

And I closed my eyes and laid my head against his chest and he stroked my hair and picked at fluff on my scarf and we sat beneath that sacred swing set. And I fell asleep and hoped to wake up in that very same way.


End file.
